


He Gets It

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton
Genre: Magyar fordítás elérhető | Hungarian translation available, Translation Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-18
Updated: 2006-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anita hasn't ever realized just how much she relies on Edward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Gets It

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Magyar available: [Ő Megérti](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13458357) by [Xaveri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xaveri/pseuds/Xaveri)



> This piece is written differently from the series, but I still hope you like it, Lisa. I wasn't sure how far to take the Anita/Edward relationship, especially since you mentioned "general" several places. I hope it won't be a disappointment. -smiling- Merry Christmas!
> 
> Written for lisa

 

 

The monster facing them is big and scary; about as big and scary as they come. Folklore shit, Anita thinks as Edward skirts around her. They've already cut a swath through the rest of the boogeymen, the two of them leaving a trail of bodies in their wake. Now this thing; its power roiling through the room, breathing its preternatural energy out in great billowing torrents.

It growls, the low sound reverberating in the back of its throat like a panther, but it's no shapeshifter she's ever seen. Drawing itself up on its haunches, it stands well over ten feet. Anita fires two silver-tipped rounds into its pelt, watches the thing absorb the bullets, its body forcing them back out the same holes they entered. The beast in front of them chuckles, a deep, harsh snarl, baring fangs and claws at the same time.

Edward's well past playing. She can see the fatigue etched on his face; the two of them fighting for survival for the past four hours. He pumps two incendiary grenades into the room, roughly tugging her behind years-old masonry. She turns her head, her Browning gripped tightly in her bloody hands, as she watches Edward tick off a countdown. Three... two... one. When his fist closes the grenades explode, sending off a shockwave of volatile heat that chews against the brick, shaking the ground beneath them. Edward throws his arm around her, drags her to the floor, and covers her body with his own.

Two things happen simultaneously: they discern the wet sploop, plop of raining baddy debris, right as a choking, black smoke snakes its way thick around them. Edward's hands haul her up, nearly dragging her towards the cellar door they spotted on their way in. It's their only way out. She's not usually this helpless, but her legs feel like jelly, probably due in large part to all the blood she's lost. Just as Edward cuts through the lock, splintering the wood with his Walther, shouldering it open to expose them to the harsh light of dawn, Anita faints dead away.

\+ || + || +

It could be because she hasn't really slept in forty-seven hours, there's always that possibility, because the sleep she pries herself out of feels deceptively like a coma. She wakes with a sudden start, reaching above her head to instinctually draw the Browning from its holster. The gun's not above her where it should be. As a matter of fact, the frame isn't even hers, and a quick scan around the room reveals tacky floral curtains, wicker furniture, and a nineteen-inch television set in the far corner.

"Hey," his voice registers from the opposite side of the room, just as impassive and unexpressive as always.

"Hey," she mimics, her head splitting from the sudden rush of movement. Vainly she rubs at her temples to gain some relief. "How long was I out?"

"About six hours."

The chill of the room penetrates the sheets, and when she slides her hands over her shoulders, she realizes she's only in her bra and panties. "I..," he starts, calmly folding his hands over his stomach. "I had to clean the wounds, Anita."

She nods, but it's too late, she's already blushing. The crimson soaks across her skin, pinking her cheeks and her visible scars. Anita hates showing weakness, and twice in less than twenty four hours she's given Edward a front-row seat.

She doesn't really realize she's shaking until her teeth are chattering inside her skull. "I'm freezing," she murmurs, sliding her hands up and down her goose-bumping skin. "Where are my clothes?"

"I sent them to the laundry. I doubt they'll be of much help anyway. I've had the heat on ever since I got you in here." There's a lilt to his voice that she doesn't recognize, watching him cross the room in smooth glides, moving very Edward-like towards the heater. He turns the dial up as far as it'll go, strips the sweater over his head. His body glistens with a fine sheen of sweat, toned, tanned, muscles defined, but not overly. "I've tried everything I could think of to get your core temperature back up outside of this." He slides into the bed beside her, gripping her around the middle before she has a chance to protest.

"Edward, out!" her heap big command sounds pathetic, even to her.

"Stop," he orders firmly when she tries to pull away. If there's one thing Anita doesn't like, it's being told what to do, especially in situations she finds compromising. Partially naked in Edward's arms? She's pretty sure she'll die of embarrassment any second, but he spoons himself up against her back, his breath light against her neck, and his warmth wraps around her like a blanket.

The more pliable she becomes against him, the more heat she draws. His big hand spans across her stomach, drifting towards the flimsy satin cup of her bra, causing her to stiffen, but he never moves past her ribs. He thumbs the scar at her back, absently shifting his fingers back and forth, building an inferno that engulfs them both under the sheets.

"You should eat," he mumbles, the warmth of his breath fluttering over her shoulder blade. "You lost a lot of blood back there, Anita. What do you want? I'll order it."

Her eyes shut tight and she grapples with memories - her and Edward in a hotel room, sharing a steak before the gruesome eventuality of weresnuff, Edward torturing her in a bathroom all in the name of trying to save her from becoming a card carrying member of the walking dead. Something inside her is calling him, summoning him; as much as she wants to blame the Ardeur, she can't. Not entirely.

She rolls out of his embrace, breaking the slender thread of magic between them, hoping he didn't notice. "Cheeseburger, no fries, and a Coke. And get an ETA on the clothes."

\+ || + || +

Six and a half months later she walks into a hospital with RPIT at her side, flanking the narrow, radiant white hallways, half-crouched against the wall. Her Browning's at the ready, but she's also got one of Edward's toys strapped to her back. It's a little something he left in her Jeep, with a note attached that said, "In case of emergency." When she can't have the real thing bringing up the rear, she takes his gifts along; his presents always see her home.

Spiraling in towards the center of the building, corridor for corridor, they finally find their perp; a rogue wererat tossing hospital staff around like rag dolls. A nurse flies through the double doors, hitting the wall, leaving a thick, oozing trail as she slips glassy-eyed down the wall. Anita pulls the Springfield Armory XD with mini-light and front mounted scope from the harness, sighting the wererat down the barrel. Dolf slides into step at her right, never crossing into her line of fire.

"Alright, Caleb, you have two choices. Either you set her down nice and slow or I put a bullet right between those bushy eyebrows."

Caleb doesn't seem to understand the virtue of negotiation or the merit of her warning. He reaches up, monstrous paws wrapping around the woman's delicate throat. Anita takes the shot before he can snap the girl's neck, laser sight shining bright red on the wall straight through the two inch hole in Caleb's forehead. The woman slips into Dolf's arms before the wererat hits the floor.

As always, Anita feels nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a hiccup of regret. Every case they work together, Dolf becomes angrier, more distant, warier of her intentions. She can see the distrust blazing in his eyes, but there's nothing she can do about it.

\+ || + || +

She sticks her keys into the lock, turns the deadbolt and breathes a small sigh of relief. It's not just liberation from an extremely long day, but contentment that all the boys are out and for once the house is completely hers.

Dropping her keys to the table, turning her back to pour herself a cup of stale coffee, she slowly maneuvers around again to face the shadowed man seated at her kitchenette. The Browning's out in a heartbeat, the coffee forgotten, and in the half light that slips unbidden between the blinds, she finds the calm, oceanic blue of eyes she never forgets.

"I'm not armed," he says lightly, bracing his palms flat against the tabletop.

"Business or pleasure?" she returns caustically, too exhausted to fool around.

"That's assuming it can't be both." He stands, using his braced position for forward momentum, striding around the table to stop in front of her. "Monster's out for the night?"

"You know they are, so why even bother?"

"You look so tired, Anita." There's nothing in his eyes, even if, once again, there's an unsuspected inflection in his tone. He's so close he's in her personal space, his breath falling soft and gentle against her cheek.

"So what of it, Edward?" she grits out between her teeth, annoyed by his scrutiny. She shouldn't have to worry about Death checking up on her, too. But he doesn't back off. He doesn't push or pull, or even try to talk it out of her. He doesn't make a single move, but he's so close and he smells like home.

Edward's a constant, maybe the only one she's ever known. He's been trying to tell her with the way he's just spontaneously there every time she needs him. The moment their caught in doesn't call for guns and ammunition, so it's outside of their comfort zone. She's slowly slipping, falling towards him, her head just touching his shoulder when the dam breaks loose. She's crying, crying for all the things she's lost, then found and lost again, all within the last four years. Fucking insecurity, fucking vulnerability, she thinks, as she twists her hands up in his shirt and clings to him. He holds her without a sound.

\+ || + || +

Anita's absolutely certain of one thing; she should never show this much weaknesses to a guy whose greatest fantasy is drawing down on her. But he's her soulmate, self-confirmed, and when his arms cross over her back, he feels more like a lover than Micah or Jean-Claude or any of them have in a long, long time.

She was never the girl to sleep around. But the marks, each of them made her sacrifice something more until she was almost unnoticeable to herself in the mirror every morning. Each one she wakes up entangled in more arms and legs and doesn't even recognize the reflection staring back at her. She's covered in so much blood and too little remorse and the hole just keeps getting deeper and deeper. But Edward's arms around her make her feel like she's anchored, grounded to something safe. Safe and real.

He's human, smells like sweat and cologne, all scents just barely there. But he's unlike the rest gracing her sheets these days. He's not a monster. His heartbeat's strong, and it'll stick around after the sun comes up. His muscles are perfectly defined, but not ready to morph and change in ways they shouldn't. His power, his strength, it's all him, not magic or a curse. His authenticity cements her there, leaning full weight against a wavering desire to touch his mouth.

He holds her in her kitchen until a bubble of laughter rises out of her chest. The overwhelming urge to kiss him and thoughts of the past make her think about Sigmund, about the childish naivety that's been ripped out of her, replaced by gore and violence and sex. Anita laughs quietly, shaking as the tears fall, pulling whatever solace she's can from Edward of all people. The irony is a little too hilarious.

Edward never asks for the punch line. He already gets it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Hungarian | Magyar kindly created by Xaveri:  
> https://www.fanfic.hu/merengo/viewstory.php?sid=135501


End file.
